


Never Ask

by K_K_TiBal



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angel Dean Winchester, Angst, Hunter Castiel, M/M, reverse!verse, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 12:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16974222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_K_TiBal/pseuds/K_K_TiBal
Summary: Castiel never leaves his knife.





	Never Ask

**Author's Note:**

> For [ c-kaeru's reverse!verse](http://c-kaeru.tumblr.com/tagged/kae%27s-reverse-verse) :)
> 
> [Rebloggable version](http://thebloggerbloggerfun.tumblr.com/post/179703363826/based-on-c-kaeru-s-reverseverse-but).

Castiel never leaves his knife. 

That’s one of the first things Dean notices about him, and it won't be the last, but it sticks out sharply in his mind under his ever-growing list titled  _ Things About Castiel - That Weird Fucking Dude.  _

It's in his hand more often that not, cradled by his fingers in the same way a child would hold a security blanket. Sometimes it's held like a lifeline. 

When he's not holding it, he has it strapped to him. His arm, his upper leg, his lower leg; there are other spots too, but Dean's pretty sure Castiel hides them from him on purpose. 

“Why do you always have that knife on you?” Dean asks one day, while they're both making sandwiches in the bunker’s kitchen, and Castiel has The Knife next to a much less deadly-looking butter knife. 

A mistake just waiting to happen, if you asked Dean. 

“Because I hunt monsters,” Castiel says bluntly, and tosses some bacon in between the two slices of bread. 

Dean snakes a hand out and steals one of the slices of bacon while Castiel is distracted by rummaging in the fridge. 

“Yeah, but like,” Dean says while chewing, “why do you sleep with it?”

“Because I hunt monsters.”

Castiel turns back towards his sandwich and glares at Dean, not amused by the thievery.  

“You don't even  _ need _ to eat.”

“And  _ you  _ don't need to  _ sleep _ with a  _ knife _ .” 

Castiel lets out a huff of air and turns his attention back towards his food. 

“As touching as it is that you suddenly care so much about my wellbeing-” 

Dean opens his mouth to protest that, seeing as he's just healed some werewolf scratches on Castiel barely an hour ago, the caring isn’t exactly new -

“- mind your own business, Dean.” 

So Dean does.

***

For a week, anyway. 

“Is it your dad's knife?” Dean asks, fingers drumming against the leather seat of Castiel's white Impala as they drive towards a possible harpy attack.

“No.” 

***

“Is it your mom's knife?” 

Castiel grunts as he stabs into the heart of the final harpy with The Knife and wipes the spray of blood from his face on the sleeve of his jacket - red on red. 

“No.” 

***

“Sibling's knife?” 

Castiel shakes his head as he strips down to his boxers smack in the middle of an empty laundromat, The Knife resting on top of the washing machine. 

Dean frowns when Castiel continues his lack of elaboration, but is plenty distracted for the time being. 

***

“Where'd you get it, then?” Dean presses, once they're back on the road. 

Castiel inhales deeply, and Dean's sure this is going to be the time he gets told off. 

“Cabela's. Seventy bucks.” 

Of all the answers he's been expecting it wasn't that. He'd been thinking somewhere along the lines of “an empty grave in a cemetery”, or “left in a haunted house”, or “willed to me by my great-grandfather”. 

Not a fucking outdoors retail store.  

“Why?” Dean asks, in disbelief. 

Castiel takes his eyes off the road just to give Dean a Look. 

“Because they sell knives.” 

Dean huffs. 

***

Dean says nothing more about it until they finally stop at a motel for the night and check into a room with two singles, and Castiel settles into the bed with The Knife gripped tightly in one hand. 

“Cas,” Dean says, his voice soft in the darkness between them, “Why do you always have that knife?” 

Castiel isn't going to answer, Dean’s almost sure of it, but then he does. 

“Because there was one time… I didn't have a knife.” 

Dean lays on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, the words repeating over and over in his mind as he doesn't sleep. 

***

Morning arrives, and Castiel still sleeps. 

It’s unusual for him to get this much rest, so Dean doesn't mind letting him sleep past the time they'd agreed to be back on the road. Any sleep the guy can get is worth it to Dean. 

It isn't until the twitching starts that Dean notices something's wrong. 

Castiel is on his bed, legs and hands shifting in sleep while he starts to mutter. 

“Stop - please -” Castiel murmurs, his head jerking slightly - “don't -” 

“Cas, hey,” Dean walks over and sits on the bed next to him, shaking his shoulder lightly. “Wake up, dude. It's a nightmare.” 

Castiel’s eyes fly open at his touch, wide and feral and dream-crazed; he’s a whirl of sudden movement, there’s a flash of silver, and before Dean can react - there's a blade buried in his chest.

It doesn't hurt, of course, but it does shock him. 

Castiel’s never been violent towards him, if you don't count the times he's smacked him lightly in the head whenever Dean steals his favorite seat on the couch. 

“Cas -” Dean stares at him, not daring to move. There's a flicker of recognition in Castiel’s eyes, and what scares him is that Castiel still drives the blade in deeper. 

“Look at you, trying to fight back,” Castiel says in a voice that's barely his own, and Dean can hear a robotic tone in it that could only come from practice, from this being premeditated.

Or from reliving the words, over and over. 

“That's so brave of you, little boy. Brave and stupid. You've got nothing. Not even a knife.” 

His fingers tremble around the handle.

“I like your spirit, though. I think you've earned the right to stay alive. Not the others, I'm afraid. They'll have to go.” 

The speech ends, and Castiel inhales sharply, looking at Dean like he finally,  _ finally  _ realizes what's just happened. 

“I -” he starts, and then cuts himself off. He looks lost, bewildered. 

“Cas...” Dean doesn't know what to say.

Castiel glances down at The Knife in Dean's chest, flicks his eyes back up to Dean's face, and breaks. 

Dean pulls him close as he starts sobbing, rubbing comforting circles into his shoulder blades as Castiel clings to him, grabbing at his shirt, his jacket, his neck, anything but The Knife - and keeps crying.

“I'm so sorry, Cas,” Dean says. “I'm so fucking sorry.” 

They stay that way until Castiel's sobs have quieted, but his breathing is still filled with sharp inhales at random intervals. Dean pulls The Knife out of his chest to set it on the bed, his wound healing almost instantly. 

He wishes he could do the same for Cas. 

Dean lets Castiel bury his face in his shoulder, and he eventually goes limp again, probably back asleep. 

He lays Castiel back down on his pillow and tries to stand, but a hand falls over his own. 

Dean turns. 

“Stay?” Castiel whispers, eyes half open, and rimmed with red. 

Dean doesn't even have to think, just nods and lays down next to him, wrapping him tightly in his arms until Castiel's breathing has lengthened again. 

***

Castiel never leaves his knife. 

And Dean never asks.


End file.
